


Petrichor

by AliLamba



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Ground AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5979202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain is good for growing plants and taking naps</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrichor

They’ve experienced their fair share of rain since arriving, so at first it is generally ignored. The delinquints pull up their hoods, tug collars more closely against their necks, and trudge on: sorting nuts and berries, repairing tents, digging troughs.

But by noon it’s clear the rain will be a problem. Rather than let up, the downfall increases in tenacity, and eventually people start to abandon their posts citing “lunchtime” or “coffee break” (a long-defunct but favorite expression; coffee hadn’t existed on the Ark for decades, not that your grandparents or your old Aunt Clara could remember). They trundle into their tents, until their tents start leaking, and then they trundle into the dropship, picking up sticks and rocks to play with as if it’s a rainy-day recess and everyone has to hang out in the gym.

Not that, of course, anyone knows anything first-hand about rainy-day recesses.

Clarke peers up at the sky, holding the tarp door of the dropship out of the way. She’s waiting for the rain to stop; there are no less than eight things on her to-do list, and the insistent and inclement weather ruins exactly all of them. She sighs, and frowns at the clouds.

All those years of dreaming of the Earth, dreaming of weather patterns and trees and animals, and already it’s becoming a damn nuisence.

She turns around, ready to complain to someone who would listen. Clarke is busy scanning the faces in the crowd when it occurrs to her…that she hasn’t seen Bellamy in awhile.

Curiosity more than anything else propels her search. It starts with an oblique tour around the lower level. When she climbs the ladder to check upstairs she finds Jasper and Monty making the most of the rainy day.

“H-hey Clarke,” Jasper says, almost like an anouncement. In fact, several people turn to look at her too quickly, slipping flasks inside their coats in a way that would be more sublte had they not been drinking from them for over an hour. Clarke frowns and says nothing, more interested in her current objective than lecturing about productivity.

She finds herself at the tarp door again, again pulling it back to check the state of the weather. The sky is so dark: clouds blanketed the world with cold pure gray, and rain fell like a shower. She squints, trying to see through the raindrops.

Bellamy’s tent isn’t so far away, but she knows she’ll be drenched by the time she got there. Clarke purses her lips, pulls her jacket off so she can use it like an umbrella, and takes off.

The ground is squishy beneath her boots. Mud has replaced at least the first two inches of dirt, and she has to actually try to pick her feet up as she moves.

Her mood is beginning to sour. All this trouble, all this work just because Bellamy was playing hooky, and now it would be up to her to police the 100 all on her own. All beause he thinks he’s better than everyone else and doesn’t need to be inside. Hell, the dropship will be in full-swing rave mode by the time she gets back at this rate.

“Bellamy Blake I swear to God—“

She flips open the tarp to his tent…

…And finds him sleeping.

Clarke blinks. And then she realizes: she’s never seen him sleep.

She thinks about turning back and letting him rest. He must have been on watch duty overnight, and not even bad weather can wake him so far.

Still, it feels right creepy to be standing in the door.

“Close the door, Clarke, you’re letting cold air in.”

Okay, so he hasn’t been sleeping afterall.

Humbled (or more accurately: _embarrassed_ ), Clarke steps inside Bellamy’s tent like she is stepping away from a fire.

The tarp falls behind her, and Bellamy rolls away from her, onto his side.

There is an awkward moment of indecision. She feels shy being caught watching him sleep, even for a moment. She also doesn’t really have a good reason to be there. Yeah, he should be in the dropship, but clearly everyone is taking a day off, so…

Bellamy turns halfway around, as if expeting her to say something.

“Is there something you need?” he asks, voice all _Who dares disrupt my slumber._

It charges her indignation. “Yeah, I just wondered why you felt the need to take an afternoon off.”

He furrows his brow at her. “Last I checked it seemed like _everyone_ was taking the day off, sweetheart.”

She knows she’s annoyed him.

Princess he calls her when he’s feeling obnoxious or affectionate. Clarke for when he needs her attention. Sweetheart he reserves for outright aggravation. He’d called some thirteen-year-old sweetheart for crying about being cold, tired, and hungry the other day.

“Well you should know there’s a party about to blow up on the dropship.”

It feels like the only relevant thing to tell him.

Bellamy has already turned back around, facing the wet tarp wall of his tent.

“So?”

Clarke shakes her head mostly at herself, looking at the ceiling, rolling her eyes.

“So maybe we should think about damage to property? It’s not like we have a bunch of seasoned drinkers on our hands; it’s not like they’re being responsible adults.”

Bellamy shrugs his upturned shoulder. “Pretty sure they’re adult enough when it comes to this place. Now shut up or ship out, I was taking a nap.”

Clarke frowns, biting the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t move all at once and that is curious. Could she really hate parties that much? She doesn’t, so that is confusing too.

“How can you sleep?” she asks instead. Again she feels the urge to complain about her to-do list and gripe about how no one cares, and it’s odd that Bellamy has been her first choice for receptacle since the annoyance took hold.

Bellamy sighs a long-suffering sigh. “It’s easy, princess. You close your eyes, stop listening to other people, and drift off into the world of dreams. Watch, I’ll see if I can teach you something.”

She smiles.

“No, I mean, with the rain and stuff. Aren’t you cold?”

Again he sighs, a harsher sound this time, and they both know she isn’t going to give up any time soon. He leans back over to look at her. “You’re really not going away, are you?”

She doesn’t say anything, but holds his stare, and it’s answer enough. Damn if she knows why, though. Petulance, maybe. Maybe because she is secretly a million years old, and getting drunk and letting loose hasn’t been her thing since she…well…ever.

“Well I am going to take a nap. And if that’s something you’re into, then, well, by all means, make yourself at home.”

He rolls over again, his back to her a metaphorical wall. His jacket’s still on and the blanket is pooled around his hips, but he’s right – there’s enough room for two. She rolls her eyes. That doesn’t surprise her, Bellamy having enough room for two people in his bed. Some people in their camp barely _have_ beds but Bellamy has enough room for guests.

She takes a few cautious steps over, her boots not sticking into ground because it’s still relatively dry here, and then she unlaces them to be polite. Stocking feet dip under the covers toes first, and she sighs once she’s comfortable.

“And just so you know, I don’t _do_ little spoon.”

It makes her grin. “Noted.”

They both go quiet. Clarke stares at the top of his tent. It’s still only mid afternoon, so she can see the rain falling in individual drops on the tarp above their heads. It’s a surprisingly soothing image, and after awhile, thoughts of _oh my god I have so much work to do_ morph into…quietness. It’s like an odd meditation.

She realizes how different silence is here than it was on the Ark. Up there, silence didn’t really ever exist, because even if you were locked in a cell for a year there was always the hum of noise coming from inside the walls, a mild sort of power everywhere and at all times, offering a steady reminder that your life was artificially created and artificially sustained.

She doubts that on Earth quiet exists at all. There’s always some bird chirping, some trees rustling, someone or some animal stepping on some part of nature just to remind her that she’s not the most important thing on the planet.

Her eyes droop. The rain does sound awfully nice. It’s soothing, and under the blanket it’s warm, and Bellamy is breathing slowly, and deeply, and that is a wonderfully peaceful thing.

 

 

“ _Princess…_ ” it’s a whisper in the darkness, and Clarke curls away from the interruption.

 _Mmmgh_ , is the low voice from her throat, all teenage _no thank you_ , and it makes the voice chuckle.

She opens her eyes. The tent is dark, really pitch-black, and it takes a moment to acclimatize.

“Jasper?”

He laughs. “And Monty,” Monty adds.

“What’re you doing in Bellamy’s tent, Clarke?”

Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. She is suddenly very awake. “Where’s Bellamy?”

“Bellamy? Oh he’s gone. I would say you two were getting _fris-kay_ but then again you’re like totally clothed, so – “

She doesn’t wait to listen to the rest of their comedy special. Clarke throws back the blankets, shoves her feet into her shoes, and laces them haphazardly. Jasper and Monty are still cracking jokes when she leaves the tent.

The rain has stopped, but the mud is now a very real issue, and Clarke grimaces as she has to march her way to the wall. Fires are lit throughout camp – the dropship probably got too cramped after awhile – and even with the mud, there’s still that pleasant scent in the air that only ever comes after heavy rains.

“Bellamy!” she shouts, still twenty feet from the camp’s perimeter. She hears a conversation break off mid-sentence, and the loud squish of her boots slooshing in the mud, and then she hears dry boots hit wood as someone stands.

“Yeah? Who’s asking.”

She frowns darkly. “Thanks for waking me up!” she shouts, accusingly. She doesn’t get the pleasure of watching Bellamy’s neck turn pink, because it’s nighttime, and he’s wearing a collar anyway.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, princess,” he says, pointedly, and Clarke realizes he’s not alone on guard duty. It doesn’t bother her as much as it should.

“Yeah well Jasper and Monty just woke me up, and if half the camp doesn’t know I was taking a nap in your tent already I’d give them ten minutes before they do.”

Bellamy’s shoulders tense up, then wilt. “ _Shit_.”

She considers throwing a rock at him, but can’t find one that will stradle that line of _that was annoying_ and _I get it you’re mad._ Instead she huffs, puts her hands on her hips, and stares at him. After a moment he stares back, matching her challenge.

“No one made you fall asleep, princess!” he calls down.

“No one made you fall asleep either, Bellamy!”

“Yeah well it’s not like it’s going to happen again, so pipe down.”

Anger flares within her, and it makes no sense – just literally zero – what she says next: “Oh yeah? It’s not going to happen again? I’ll have you know I slept _great_ , Bellamy. Like _hell_ it’s not going to happen again.”

He splutters. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

There’s a beat of silence. And again, what’s with the logic? There is none.

“Tomorrow work for you?”


End file.
